I looked at the beer label.
Nice.
Warm.
Soft.
Not dead.
Not alive.
“None of your business.”
“That bad?”
“No.”
“That good?”
“No.”
Nate winced. “Ouch.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“I know.”
“She deserves better than my head being somewhere else.”
“You tell her that?”
“Some version.”
“And?”
“She already knew.”
Nate nodded slowly. “Women usually do.”
I looked back out the window.
Santa Monica glowed. Beautiful and crowded and full of lives that had nothing to do with me. Somewhere out there, Destiny had built one of her own. A life with matcha lattes and nursing textbooks and a best friend from Idaho who named feral cats like cupcakes. A life I was not supposed to touch.
“Georgia’s easy,” I said.
Nate was quiet.
“She’s clean,” I continued. “Her family is normal. Her dad grills. Her mom hugs. She likes me for reasons I can’t figure out.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It should be enough.”
Nate set his fork down.
“But it isn’t,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
